


Cryptic

by Lydia (lydiabell)



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lydiabell/pseuds/Lydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed is at a loss for words<br/>Emma speaks in tongues</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cryptic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Eponymous Rose in the Yuletide 2008 challenge.
> 
> Many thanks to falzalot for cheerleading, starseverywhere for Britpicking, and violacoye for the wonderfully helpful (and fast!) beta.

It was nearly dawn when Colin Collins returned home from the late shift. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he proceeded to the kitchen and fetched a glass of warm milk, then headed to bed.

When he stepped into the bedroom, glass in hand, a strange sight greeted him. Large, soft cushions were strewn about the floor. He prodded one gingerly with his toe. Just a normal pillow -- until a puff of gas emerged.

Coughing, Colin turned to leave, but the bedroom door closed before he could reach it. A figure in a gas mask stood there. Colin turned back to the bedroom and another figure emerged from behind the wardrobe. Colin's gasp turned into a cough, then into a coughing fit. Through his watering eyes, he saw the figures converge on him.

The last thing he remembered was the two of them taking the glass from his hand and lowering him gently to the cushioned floor.

~~~~~

"So what's the Ministry's connection to this case?" Emma asked, glancing around Colin Collins's neat bedroom.

"Mr. Collins worked for the Government Records Printing Office ..."

"... which prints Ministry documents."

"Not the top secret ones, no. Those are produced in-house. Still, GRPO employees have access to a lot of information that's not available to the public."

"So you think he may have been kidnapped."

"Perhaps, or he may have done a runner. Though I can't think he'd have access to sufficiently valuable information to justify either."

"No chance he's simply taken an unscheduled vacation?"

"Not likely, according to his manager at work. Of course, it's always possible a pretty girl swept him off his feet. It can happen to the best of us," Steed teased.

Emma let that go and glanced around the room. Her gaze landed on a bookcase next to the bed. "Why would he have a bookcase with no books in it?"

"Not just one. Most of the shelves in the den are empty too. There are even books missing from the kitchen."

"Classified recipes?" Emma mused.

"I do hope Mr. Collins hasn't violated the Official Pastries Act."

Emma grinned and gestured toward the bedroom door. "Shall we?"

"After you."

They left the bedroom and were about to exit the flat when they heard a faint sound at the front door. Steed held a finger to his lips and moved to one side of the door, gesturing for Emma to take the other. On his nod, Emma flung open the door.

An elderly woman, who clearly had been leaning with her ear against the door, toppled to the ground at their feet.

Steed and Emma glanced at each other. Emma raised an eyebrow. "How do you do, madam?" Steed greeted the woman.

She nodded to him, but declined to take his hand, rising under her own power instead. "Are you more police?" she asked.

"After a fashion," Emma said.

The woman looked between the two of them, then addressed herself to Emma. Steed looked amused, but didn't intervene.

"My name's Sylvia Mansfield -- I live next door," she explained. "I heard people moving around in here, and I thought I would listen in to see if maybe those chaps from yesterday were back."

"You saw someone, then?" Emma asked.

"There were these two men dressed all in black. They had duffle bags, those army ones. Stuffed full, too; they were leaning over to their sides trying to carry it all."

"Could they have been carrying books? We noticed that there seem to be a good many empty bookshelves."

Mrs. Mansfield moved past Emma and Steed into the flat. She peered into the den, then the bedroom. "Must have been," she declared. "Colin is fascinated with military history. The Great War, World War II, American Rebellion, Crimea, you name it. Takes a lot of books out from the library -- cheaper that way, you know, he's very budget-conscious -- but he bought what he could. Old and rare books especially."

Emma and Steed exchanged another look. "Do you think that you would be able to tell us what was missing?" Emma asked.

"I might, if his notebooks are still here. He was working on an annotated bibliography. He showed it to me once -- very proud of it, he was. Said he'd been working on it for eleven years. He had little X's next to the books he owned himself."

Steed had already moved to the den and begun rifling desk drawers. He soon emerged triumphant, notebook in hand. "Here we are. There are five more like this in the lower drawer."

"Oh, that's a relief," Mrs. Mansfield sighed. "I'd hate to see him lose all of that hard work. Now you just need to find him and bring him back."

"Right, then," Steed said briskly, "we'll cover two angles at once. Mrs. Peel, you stay with our friend here and compile a list of missing books, and I'll go and talk to Collins's supervisor at the GRPO." He doffed his bowler to Mrs. Mansfield. "Very nice to meet you."

"Goodbye, young man." She linked her arm through Emma's. "Would you like to bring the notebooks to my flat, dear? We could have a nice cup of tea while we work ..."

~~~~~

The victim paced around a small windowless room. "You can't keep me here! This is madness!" he shouted.

Nobody answered.

"Is there anyone out there? Anyone? Don't do this, you can't, you can't torture me like this..."

A computerized voice said, "_Forty-one days._"

The man slumped to the ground.

Outside the room, a woman stood listening to this exchange over a speaker. She shook her head sadly. She turned to the man standing behind her and said, "I'm afraid we will be taking on a new client. Have you heard from Mr. Patterson yet?"

"Not yet. I thought I would ring him tomorrow. Don't want to seem overeager."

"That will be fine." She smiled. "When he reconsiders, send Grigsby."

"Yes, Miss Cain." The man nodded and left.

The woman turned the speaker for Room 6 back on.

"Listen to me, you soulless metal monster, I'm going to turn your circuits into..."

"_That is clearly intended as a threat. Forty-two days._"

She sighed. "Oh, Mr. Collins. Please don't do this to yourself."

~~~~~

Steed knocked on the neatly stenciled door of the Government Records Printing Office, then entered.

"Good afternoon. Mr. Patterson?"

The man squinted at him. "Can I help you?"

"My name is John Steed. I'm here to investigate the disappearance of Colin Collins."

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Colin Collins," Steed said with puzzled geniality. "I'm given to understand he's an employee of yours."

"And who did you say you were again?"

"John Steed. From the Ministry of Defence. Are you quite all right?"

"'Course I am. How do I know you're this Steed fellow? Have you any identification?"

"Certainly." Steed smiled and reached into his coat pocket. Patterson scrutinized the Ministry card he produced for a long moment.

"Nice printing job on this. Not one of ours, of course -- see the descenders on the 3 and the 7 in your address? We don't use non-lining numerals. Quality work, though." He pushed his glasses back up his nose and returned the card to Steed. "Sorry about that, old man, just need to ensure that I don't give any secrets away to the enemy, you know."

"Is that much of a threat around here?" Steed inquired a bit incredulously.

"You never know, old man, you never know," Patterson said. "We print documents for every government department from Abandoned Mine Reclamation to Zoos and Parks, Office of. Even your Ministry."

"But not the sensitive information, surely."

"That depends on what you mean by sensitive, now doesn't it? Take this telephone directory, for instance." Patterson held up the directory for the Foreign Office. "Watch this." He picked up a telephone and dialed. "May I speak with Mr. Leslie, please?" Pause. "Oh, I see. Do you know when he will be back?" Another pause. "No, no, I'm sorry, I can't leave a message. I'm his doctor, and it really is important that I speak to him directly. Two thirty? Wonderful, thank you so much. Oh, and one other thing -- he isn't out playing golf, is he? I've warned him about exerting himself, especially in this weather ... his club, well, that's all right then. As long as he's not having too many brandies." He chuckled. "Thank you very much, my dear." He rang off and turned to Steed. "You see? Now I know where the Intelligence Director goes for lunch and for how long. I could use that information to break into his office, to kidnap him on the way to or from his club, or possibly even for blackmail, depending on what he's told his wife."

"Impressive," Steed admitted. "So you think that the information printed here is worth kidnapping Colin Collins for."

Patterson's face fell. "Oh dear, poor Collins. Do you have any idea what's happened to him?"

"We have a lead or two. Nothing I can talk about; I'm sure you understand."

"Quite, quite. Hush, hush, and all that." Patterson nodded. "Collins works in personnel; he's in charge of hiring and firing. Doesn't have much contact with the actual printed matter, though of course he has a key to the building."

"Has he had to let anyone go recently? Someone who might hold a grudge?"

Patterson shook his head. "We haven't had any dismissals recently; in fact, we're in a bit of a hiring boom. The government's producing more documents than ever before," he said with a tiny, happy sigh. "If poor Collins doesn't make it back soon, we may have to engage that personnel firm that came calling last week."

"Oh? And what firm was that?"

"Oh, what was the name," Patterson muttered, sifting through papers on his desk, "Arnold something ... no, here it is." He held up a business card. "The Cain Hiring Agency."

"Would you mind if I took a look at that?" Steed asked.

"Go ahead." Patterson handed him the card. "I'm afraid I can't let you take it, though. I might need it."

"I understand." Steed made a note of the address, then handed the card back. "Thank you, Mr. Patterson, you've been most helpful."

~~~~~

Irene Cain walked into the agency that bore her name. She was tall, around forty-five, and smartly dressed. Her assistant, a sharp-featured young man with a mop top, was just hanging up the phone and scribbling a note.

"Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Norman. Any word from Mr. Patterson?"

"He rang us this morning. It transpires that his personnel manager is missing."

"How awful for him! And in the middle of a hiring boom, as well. Were you able to assist him?"

"I recommended a fine chap named Grigsby for the position. Temporarily, of course. Until his man turns up."

"Excellent. I'm so glad we could be of assistance. Have we any other prospects on the horizon?"

Norman beamed. "Mr. Bellman of the _Times_ has recommended our services to a colleague at Jane's Information Group. I received a telephone call not five minutes ago requesting a meeting."

"Jane's," Miss Cain breathed, her eyes widening. "My goodness. You've scheduled the meeting, I assume?"

"Yes, ma'am. Tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock."

"Splendid. That gives me almost enough time to prepare. Do I have anything else on the agenda today?"

"A Mr. Steed from Inland Revenue will be here shortly."

"Oh, dear. Is there a problem? I must say, it's a good thing I had no idea of all the accounting that would be involved in this project, or I might never have begun."

"He didn't say, ma'am."

"Very well, we'll just have to see. Thank you, Norman." The young man nodded and left. Miss Cain sank back into her chair. "Jane's," she repeated, and giggled.

~~~~~

The first thing Steed noticed upon entering the Cain Hiring Agency was a tall woman standing with her back to the door, filing papers in a cabinet. Her well-tailored suit emphasized all the right curves without being vulgar. Steed stood a bit straighter.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. May I speak with Irene Cain?"

The woman turned around. "I'm Irene Cain."

Steed smoothly produced one of the Ministry's false identifications. "John Steed, Inland Revenue. I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Cain. Shall we proceed to your office?" he asked, gesturing toward the door behind the desk.

"Oh, this is my office. We only have the one room -- still getting off the ground, you know. My assistant, Norman, has to work in the storage closet," she confided as they took their seats. "So, Mr. Steed, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Nothing wrong with our filings, I hope?"

"Not at all. We're merely conducting an examination of new firms, hoping to make sure everyone's managing their books properly from the beginning, that sort of thing. We find that it leads to less trouble down the line."

"Proactive measures," said Miss Cain. "Commendable -- and so unlike what I've come to expect from government." She smiled slyly at Steed, who returned the gesture. "So what can I do for you?"

"The personnel you provide to your client firms -- are they employed by you and hired out as consultants, or are they hired directly by the firms in question?"

"We place highly-qualified men and women for permanent positions," Miss Cain told him. "It is our hope that our dedicated personnel will soon be gracing the employment rolls of firms all over England."

"I see," Steed said. "That does make my task easier. Much less complicated accounting this way, you see. In that case, all I'll need is your list of clients, if you would be so kind. I'll need to follow up with them to ensure that they've followed appropriate hiring procedures."

"Well, if that's all you need, I'll have you on your way in no time," Miss Cain said, opening a drawer in her desk. "Not, of course, that I wish to hurry you away," she added with a smile.

"You're too kind."

Miss Cain selected a few sheets of paper and handed them to Steed. "Those are names and addresses of the firms we've worked with, plus the names of our contacts and of the employees we placed. Will that suffice?"

"Indubitably, Miss Cain, and I do thank you," Steed said. He placed the sheets in his briefcase. "I must say," he continued, "you've been most helpful. We have to fight tooth and nail to get most companies to disclose information."

Miss Cain stiffened slightly. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Steed."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind." Miss Cain smiled again, but with less warmth than before. "Now, if that's all, I must be getting back to work." She rose, and Steed followed suit.

"Of course. Again, thank you very much for your time."

"Good day, Mr. Steed."

~~~~~

Emma looked up as Steed let himself into her flat. She was kneeling on the floor, tinkering with a scale model of Babbage's Difference Engine. "How did it go?"

Steed handed her the pages he'd acquired from Miss Cain. "She was charming, straightforward, and completely cooperative."

"A bust, then."

"Hmm, we'll see."

Emma started looking over the list. "Publishers ... newspapers ... broadcasters ..." She looked up at Steed. "I'm detecting a pattern."

"You noticed that too, eh? Likely a propaganda scheme of some kind. She could be setting people in place to indoctrinate the masses into Communism, Fascism ..."

"Manchester United ..." Emma offered.

"... though I've never met such a nicely-dressed Communist," Steed finished.

"Some animals are more equal than others, after all." Emma took a closer look at the stationery. "814 Folkestone Lane; I've been there. The Crossword Society have their headquarters in that building."

"That was it!" Steed cried, snapping his fingers. "The décor was all in black and white. There were these tiles on the floor -- the pattern was like a crossword layout."

"Yes, I remember that floor. They must have moved into the Society's old offices. What an odd coincidence." Emma said, fiddling with a stuck gear.

"They might be letting part of their space -- Miss Cain did say that the agency had only one room."

"In that case, perhaps I should renew my membership in the Society," she mused. "It might be helpful to have an excuse to spend time nearby."

"Renew?"

"Yes, I was a member for a few years. I resigned after winning the national championship three years in a row."

"Naturally," Steed agreed. "Wouldn't want to be unsporting. Well, then, why don't you dust off your dictionary, and I'll see what I can make of the list of companies Miss Cain gave me."

Emma nodded and rose to her feet. "All right, then, off I go." She gave the engine a quick pat, then did the same to Steed's bowler. "Meet you for tea?"

"Sounds lovely. Oh, but let's make it my place." He poked gingerly at the machine. "Less computation in the way."

~~~~~

"An odd thing, Miss Cain," Norman Spurlock noted to his employer when she returned from lunch.

"What's that?"

"I realized that the GRPO wouldn't be on the list of clients you gave that Steed chap. I called Inland Revenue to update him, and they've never heard of him."

Miss Cain froze. "They're sure?"

"Nobody by the name of John Steed is employed or has been employed recently by Inland Revenue," Norman quoted.

"All right. Has Grigsby started at Government Records yet?"

"He started this morning."

"Good. Have him double-check Inland Revenue's directory. If Steed doesn't turn up there, have him check police, intelligence, military -- anyone who might have an interest in stopping us. Meanwhile, see if Steed's address is publicly listed, and send Martin to keep an eye on him."

"Yes, ma'am."

"We've come too far, Norman. We can't be discovered now."

"No, ma'am."

A small light behind Miss Cain's desk began to flash. She glanced at it. "Never mind, Norman," she said. "We have a visitor in the other office. Go and see to that -- I'll take care of Steed."

Norman nodded and left. Sighing heavily, Miss Cain sat at her desk and picked up the phone.

~~~~~

Mrs. Peel waited at the front desk of the Crossword Society for a moment, tapping her foot. Just as she was about to ring the bell again, Norman Spurlock emerged from the inner room.

"Good morning, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

"Good morning. I used to be a member of the society, and I was thinking of re-joining."

"Certainly, ma'am." He pulled a green notebook labeled "Membership Roll" from the middle drawer of the desk. "Your name?"

"My membership was in the name Emma Knight."

Norman looked up from his notebook with a start. "Emma Knight! Why, it's an honor to meet you, ma'am!" He reached for her hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Why, you are a veritable legend in the Society! Three championships in a row; defeating Frederick Wynne himself for the first one!" Emma smiled indulgently.

"Of course," he went on, "we can waive the usual requirement of completing a puzzle in a competitive time -- "

"Oh, I don't mind," Emma interjected. "I can do it right now, if you'd like; I have a bit of free time."

"Wonderful. Let me fetch Miss Cain."

Emma's eyebrows rose slightly at the name. "Is she the new head of the Society?"

"Yes ma'am, and a fine player she is. Has a simply extraordinary facility with words. She speaks eight languages, you know."

"She sounds quite accomplished."

"Are you extolling my virtues again, dear Norman?" the woman in question asked in an amused voice as she emerged from the inner room.

"No more than is due, Miss Cain," he replied. "This is Miss Emma Knight, ma'am. She'd like to re-join the Society."

"Miss Knight." Miss Cain extended her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've read so much about you."

"Have you?" Emma asked warily.

"Yes, in the history of the Society."

"I see. Well, the pleasure is all mine, Miss Cain. Oh, and it's Mrs. Peel now."

"Of course. Norman, please type up a membership card for Mrs. Peel. I think we can waive the formalities in this case."

"She says she'd like to take the qualifying test, ma'am."

"If you don't mind," Emma said. "I haven't played competitively in years; it would be nice to find out if I'm still sharp."

"Oh, I've no doubt you are." Miss Cain smiled and gestured toward the inner room. "Please, step this way. You probably remember your way around," she added as they walked through the door.

"It does seem a bit familiar," Emma said. "Smaller, though." She watched Miss Cain for a reaction. Seeing none, she continued, "You've moved the furniture around."

"Yes, that must be it." Miss Cain retrieved a sheet of paper, a pencil, and a timer from a stocked sideboard. "Will you be requiring a dictionary?"

"No, thank you."

"Excellent." Miss Cain smiled. "I don't like to rely on them myself. I feel that the best crossword players are those who have a true love of words, and have dedicated themselves to continuing their educations throughout their lives."

"I certainly agree."

Two young men sat at tables in opposite corners of the room. One was working a puzzle, and the other appeared to be reading a dictionary. Every once in a while, he would scratch out a word and write furiously in the book. Miss Cain set the puzzle and pencil on a table in the center of the room and gestured for Emma to sit.

"Shall we set the timer for fifteen minutes?"

"Oh, let's try ten," Emma countered.

Miss Cain grinned. "I can see that we're going to get along splendidly, Mrs. Peel." She pressed the button on top of the timer. "Begin."

Mrs. Peel worked quickly, humming to herself and filling in squares. Without looking up from her puzzle, she casually asked, "So what do you do when you're not conducting Society business, Miss Cain? If you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all. I work part-time as an executive assistant. Of course, words are my true calling. I'm one of those people who can't be without something to read; I'll read my breakfast cereal box if I've nothing else. And you?"

"I suppose you could say I'm looking for a new challenge. I headed the board of my late father's company for several years, but I'm no longer involved in the day-to-day operations. I'm considering getting into publishing -- a woman's magazine for the thinking woman, perhaps."

Miss Cain clapped her hands together. "I'm so very glad you've decided to re-join us, Mrs. Peel. I can see that I've found a kindred spirit," she declared. "Tell me, are you familiar with the work of Byron Ewell?"

"Only in passing. He's a follower of Benjamin Whorf, isn't he?"

Miss Cain beamed. "He is indeed. Though I wouldn't say 'follower' -- more like 'intellectual heir'. Professor Ewell believes that not only does our language describe what we think; it defines what we _can_ think. For instance, did you know that the Hopi language has no verb tenses? And that as a result, speakers of Hopi conceive of time completely differently than we do?"

"I'm familiar with the theory," Emma conceded.

Miss Cain leaned forward. "Think of it, Mrs. Peel. The words we absorbed effortlessly when we were babies, the words we fill in these puzzles now -- they represent not only objects, not only concepts, but the entire superstructure of our cognitive apparatus. Alter the structure, and you can shape thought itself."

The bell on the timer rang.

"Do forgive me, Mrs. Peel. I got carried away and used up all your time. Of course I'll allow you to take another test."

"Oh, this?" Emma asked. She held up her completed puzzle. "I finished that some time ago. Four minutes and -- thirty-eight seconds, I believe the clock said. Will that do?"

Miss Cain stared for a beat, then laughed delightedly. "Welcome back, Mrs. Peel, welcome back." She glanced at her watch and winced. "I'm afraid I simply must prepare for an important meeting, but I would love the opportunity to speak with you further. Could we meet for a late lunch tomorrow? Say, twelve-thirty?"

"I would like that very much."

"Splendid. I'll send Norman in with your membership kit. Have a good afternoon." With that, Miss Cain left.

Emma took a closer look around the room. The young man who'd been working the puzzle had gone. The other, thin and ginger, seemed to be watching her, though he quickly averted his eyes when she looked his way. She noticed a sign reading "N.A.C.W.S." over the door on the eastern wall -- the door leading to the Cain Hiring Agency.

Norman re-appeared. "Are you opening a North American branch?" Emma asked, indicating the sign.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I thought perhaps it stood for 'North American Crossword Society.'"

"Oh, I see. No, that's merely an internal designation for that office. Here you go, Mrs. Peel, here's your membership card, and your official Crossword Society pen."

"Thank you very much."

"I understand we'll be seeing you back here tomorrow, ma'am."

"I wouldn't miss it."

~~~~~

"Definitely a propaganda scheme," Emma declared.

This time they were meeting in Steed's flat. Emma lounged on the couch, skimming back issues of _Linguistics Monthly_. Steed worked a crossword from one of the Society's books, dictionary at his side.

Emma continued, "She's obsessed with words. She believes fervently in the power of language to shape society. It's a perfect fit."

"But why steal Collins's books?" Steed asked.

"I haven't worked that part out yet," Emma admitted. "What did you learn from the agency's client list?"

"Most of the firms engaged the Cain Agency to fill normally-occurring vacancies. However, I found five companies on the list who lost employees in mysterious circumstances."

"Do we have any idea where she might be holding them? Assuming she still is, of course."

"Your Crossword Society operates a printing press in Southwark. The district's fallen on a bit of hard times, so there aren't so many people to notice any odd comings and goings."

Emma nodded. "Do you want to check it out, or shall I?"

"Oh, I'll go. We don't want you to miss your meeting with Miss Cain."

"All right then." She glanced at his puzzle on her way out the door. "While you're there, see if you can't find an answer sheet."

"Very funny."

~~~~~

A thin young man with ginger hair sat in a car down the block from Steed's flat. He slumped in his seat, plainly bored, as he watched the front door. Emma's emergence from the building caught his attention, though. As soon as she drove away, he hurried to the nearest telephone booth.

"Mr. Spurlock? I've been watching that Steed fellow, and a woman just left his place. She's the same one you were talking to yesterday -- the one who came in to take a test."

"Mrs. Peel?" said Norman. "Oh, no, no, that's dreadful news. Miss Cain will be terribly disappointed. Have you learned anything more about Steed?"

"Nothing. But if your Mrs. Peel is working with him, then they'll have made the connection between the hiring agency and the Society. They must suspect something."

"All right. I'll inform Miss Cain. You know what you have to do with Steed."

~~~~~

Nobody was at the front desk when Emma returned to the Crossword Society. She looked around, then quickly ducked behind the desk and began to go through the drawers. The bottom drawer held a well-worn crossword dictionary, hidden beneath a telephone directory. Emma smiled. "I see someone doesn't want to disappoint his idol."

In the middle drawer, she found the notebook containing the membership roll for the Crossword Society, and a smaller blue one for the "Not a Cross Word Society". Skimming the list, she noticed the names Cain and Spurlock, as well as several names from the Cain Hiring Agency's client list.

She heard footsteps from the back room. She hastily set the notebooks back and stepped out from behind the desk just as Norman emerged.

"Ah, Mrs. Peel, good afternoon," said Norman. "Miss Cain has asked me to relay a message to you. She says that she has been delayed at the printers', but she'd very much like to speak to you about a project she has in mind. Would it be possible for you to meet her at the print shop? It's not far; I can give you directions."

"I suppose so," Emma said.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Now," he began sketching on a piece of paper, "just go south on Folkestone till you reach the ring road, then ..."

~~~~~

Martin closed the bonnet of Steed's car. His trap set, he crawled beneath the car and waited.

~~~~~

As Norman had promised, the drive was a short one, and Emma pulled up in her Lotus outside a dingy industrial building about twenty minutes later. Miss Cain met her at the door.

"Mrs. Peel, how good of you to come," she said warmly.

"Mr. Spurlock said that you wanted to discuss a project with me."

"Yes, come this way. I'll tell you all about it as I give you the tour."

Emma followed her up the metal steps and into the plant. The interior consisted mainly of one large room, housing a sprawling old printing press and its control apparatus. There was a door in the back of the room that seemed to lead to a corridor of offices. Nobody else was in sight.

"Who staffs the press?" she asked.

"Pardon? Oh -- I've sent the staff home. We've had a mechanical failure with the press. Nothing to be done until the repair technicians arrive tomorrow."

"Poor luck."

"Yes, it was. Ordinarily, we'd be busy printing puzzle booklets for the regional championships this time of year." Emma tried to get a glance at the sheets still on the press, but Miss Cain smoothly steered them both away. "We may have to delay the first round."

They turned into the corridor at the far end of the building. Emma noticed, as they entered the first room on the right, that it was marked "Room 8". In the middle of the room stood a card table with two folding chairs. Emma quickly moved to secure the chair nearest the door. She perched at the very edge of her seat, poised for immediate action, as Miss Cain sat down opposite her.

"So," Emma began, "tell me about this project you had in mind."

"Do you remember the discussion we had yesterday, about Byron Ewell?" Miss Cain replied.

"Of course."

"What would you say if I told you that I had discovered the way to lasting peace?"

"I'd ask what religion you'd joined," Emma quipped.

"Do be serious, Mrs. Peel."

"I am. I don't believe in utopian schemes. I think people are what they are -- generous, selfish, kind, belligerent, compassionate, cruel ... we're a muddle." She smiled. "I don't think any ideology can change that, no matter how idealistic. In fact, I think the more idealistic is it, the more likely it is to fail."

They sat in silence for a moment. Miss Cain looked down at her hands.

"Now tell me what's going on here," Mrs. Peel said firmly.

Miss Cain looked up at her. "I'm sorry," she said. With a quick motion, she brought up her right arm. There was a small aerosol canister in her hand.

Emma sprang to her feet, but the spray hit her full in the face. She staggered backwards, gasping. Miss Cain quickly moved to catch her and lowered her gently to the ground.

"You'll thank me later," she said. "I promise."

~~~~~

Emma woke to find Steed lying next to her. She shook his arm. "Steed!" He didn't stir. Emma thought for a moment, then smirked. She leaned over and murmured into his ear. After a moment, Steed's eyes flew open. He peered at Emma, then, without moving his head, glanced around the room. He frowned. "Well," he said. "That's disappointing."

"We've been taken captive by the Crossword Society."

"Never mind disappointing, that's embarrassing."

"Mmm," Emma agreed, helping him sit up. "We're at the Society's printing facility. Miss Cain brought me here for a tour this afternoon, then locked me in."

"What appalling hospitality."

"We're in room number 8. I wonder if there are seven other unlucky souls locked up here."

"Mr. Collins and the other five mysteriously missing employees?" Steed guessed.

"Mmm, but then who's number 7?"

"Probably me," Steed admitted.

"Good point. On the bright side, if they're still using cells 1 through 6, then our missing workers must still be alive."

"Wonder what she's got planned for them."

Just then, Miss Cain's voice came over the loudspeaker. "Mr. Steed, Mrs. Peel. I hope that you aren't experiencing any undue effects of the gas."

"Not apart from being held prisoner, no," Emma muttered.

Miss Cain continued on. "You're quite astute. I do have a plan for all of you. The same plan I have for the people of our great nation: a life lived in peace."

"They all say that," Steed whispered.

"Professor Ewell has shown me the way. What if we had no words for killing? For war? For brutality? What if we could not even conceive of them?"

"Miss Cain," Emma said, "surely you don't think -- "

"Oh, but I do. We have our people in publishing houses, newspapers, television and radio stations, even schools. Over time, they will phase out the usage of violent words, and substitute more constructive and humane language. Cleanse the language, and thoughts will follow. Cleanse the thoughts, and actions will follow."

"Well, that explains the membership roster I found. The 'Not a Cross Word' Society," Emma murmured to Steed, who rolled his eyes.

"Unfortunately, we were not always able to find serendipitous vacancies or willing participants. In a few cases, we have had to resort to re-education. I regret that your case is among them. However, I am confident that our techniques will be able to help you. My associates will ensure that you have no reminders of your previous way of life when you are released -- no books or newspapers that might trigger a relapse."

"Mr. Collins's collection," Steed said.

"Of course, you will have to resign your current employment, but we can place you in a safe and fulfilling position. So you see, there's no reason to continue resisting.

"The re-education scheme is very simple. The lock on the door is controlled by the computer. When it determines that you have cleared your mind of anti-social thoughts, you will be released. You are in control here. You must train yourself to reject the use of violent language. It won't be easy -- none of our other guests has yet completed the course of treatment -- but it can be done. It must be done.

"I wish you good luck, Mrs. Peel, Mr. Steed."

A click indicated that Miss Cain had shut her microphone off.

Steed shook his head. "What an absurd plan."

"Yes, I'd say our Miss Cain has learned just enough linguistic theory to be dangerous."

"So you're saying that while she may be cunning ..."

"... she's no linguist," Emma finished.

"All of which is fascinating, but doesn't do much to get us out of here. Do you think we could convince the machine that we've repented of our misguided ways in record time?"

Emma looked up toward the speaker. "Excuse me," she called.

No reply.

She looked at Steed. He shrugged. "Excuse me," Emma repeated. "I was wondering if you would be so kind as to let us know when we might be released. I do believe we've seen the error of our ways."

"_The program requires the subject to remain free of forbidden words and thoughts for fourteen days prior to his or her return to society._"

"I see." Glancing around, Emma muttered to Steed, "I do hope that there's more to our luxury suite than meets the eye."

"It hardly matters. We can't possibly stay here that long," he whispered back.

Emma nodded. "Is there any alternative to the fourteen-day regimen? Some way to pur ... ah, cleanse one's mind of offending thoughts?"

"_The program requires the subject to remain free of forbidden words and thoughts for fourteen days prior to his or her return to society._"

"Right," Steed said. "Well, it'll have to be the old-fashioned way, then."

They looked around. The table and chairs had been removed, leaving them nothing to work with. "The ventilation grate's there," Emma noted, pointing toward the ceiling. "It must be twelve feet up. I'm afraid my backflip's not up to the task."

"Pity. We'll have to find a way to disable the lock."

"It's electronic. We'd need to kill the power."

"_For the use of violent terminology,_" the computer droned, "_one day has been added to your treatment. You will now be required to stay for fifteen days._"

Emma opened her mouth, then shut it again. "No use making it sixteen," she said.

Steed grinned. "What a wonderful idea." He raised his voice. "Let's kill two birds with one stone."

"_Sixteen days._"

"Shoot to kill?"

"_Seventeen days._"

"A little help," Steed murmured to Emma.

"Sorry," she said. "Hmm ... My feet are killing me!"

"_Eighteen d --_"

Steed interrupted. "What does not kill me, makes me stronger."

"_Nineteen days._"

"Who killed Cock Robin?" Emma called. "'I', said the Sparrow.'"

"_Twenty days._"

Steed joined in. "'With my bow and arrow. / I killed Cock Robin.'"

"_Twenty-one days._"

"What a day, what a day / For an auto-da-fé!" Emma sang.

"_Twenty-two days._"

"Oh, show tunes!" Steed said approvingly.

"It's a lovely day for drinking / And for watching people fry!"

"_Twenty-three days._"

Steed burst into a song of his own. "Oh, I'll take the tripod / And you take the gun / And you'll be in action before me!"

"_Twenty-four ..._"

"Hurry, hurry, hurry / Watch 'em die! / Hurry, hurry, hurry / Hang 'em high!"

"_Twenty-fiv .. twent ... _"

"And if you get shot / I'll take the blooming lot."

"_Twen ..._"

There was a sizzling sound, then a loud pop, then darkness and silence.

"And I'll eat your iron ration in the morning," Steed finished.

~~~~~

The door opened easily with the power gone, and Steed and Emma emerged into the dark hallway.

"We're in a side hallway off of the main plant," Emma said. "Turn left at the end of this corridor; that'll take us to the press and the exit."

Steed looked around, squinting. "Why don't you free the others. I'll see if Miss Cain is still here."

Emma nodded and began to open the other cells and herd their occupants out the back door. Steed headed for the main room.

Miss Cain stood on a low platform, furiously flipping switches on a control panel. She saw Steed coming and retreated to the floor, dodging between the units of the press. He ran to follow her, but soon lost her in the darkness. He positioned himself near the outside door instead.

"It's over, Miss Cain. Come on out. I don't want to hurt you, and I know you don't want to hurt me."

"Who are you?" she called from somewhere off to his right. "Our man at Government Records wasn't able to find any information on you."

"Good old Mr. Patterson," Steed murmured.

"Are you with the police? The military? Do you work for an arms manufacturer?"

"This isn't about me, Miss Cain." He watched her duck behind the inking unit.

"Just tell me. Why do you prefer a world filled with violence and misery?"

"Who says I do?"

"I heard what you said back there. I know you think my plan can't succeed. Fine, then let it fail. You'll have lost nothing."

"Shall we get Colin Collins and the rest in here and see if they agree?" Steed asked.

He spotted her hiding beneath the roller. She was crouched down, looking toward the exterior door. He moved around the press, quickly and quietly, coming up behind her.

He was nearly there when she suddenly turned and saw him. She crawled out from her hiding space and ran for the door. Steed was too tall to get under the roller quickly, and when he finally stood, she had reached the output end of the press, mere yards from the door.

Just then, the power returned. The lights came on, and Steed heard the whir of machinery.

Miss Cain heard it too. She froze in confusion as the press started up. It turned faster and faster, much too fast, and just as she remembered herself and began to move, a cascade of paper knocked her from her feet.

Steed looked up and saw Emma standing on the control platform. She grinned and turned the press off, then bounded down the stairs to join him. The two of them quickly made their way to Miss Cain, who was beginning to stir beneath the pile of paper. Emma knelt next to her and gently but firmly restrained her.

Steed picked up one of the many sheets of paper and read it over, his eyes widening. He read aloud:

"To be or not to be, that is the question;  
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to withstand  
The challenges of outrageous fortune,  
Or to join hands against a sea of troubles,  
And by uniting, end them."

He made a face. "I thought you were meant to be nonviolent." He looked at Emma, whose expression of distaste matched his own. He let the paper fall from his hand and drift gently down atop the pile covering Miss Cain. "That's murder of literature."

~~~~~

"Not our usual case, wouldn't you agree?" Steed asked. He was at the wheel, driving them down a country lane. "Nobody trying to conquer the world ..."

"Nobody killed ..."

"No dastardly schemes to profit from the misfortunes of others ..."

"Not a diabolical mastermind in sight," Emma concluded.

"On the contrary. More of -- dare I say it -- an angelical mastermind?"

Emma laughed. "All of our cases should be like this."

The sun glinted off the blue peace sign painted on the Microbus's bonnet as they drove off.


End file.
